Red John Revealed
by ForsetiPurge
Summary: COMPLETE. No more Ted Mosbying. I'll just throw all I've got about my Red John suspect. My thanks to all of you who read, review, favorite, and follow.
1. Myth

_You look at these scattered houses, and you are impressed by their beauty. I look at them, and the only thought which comes to me is a feeling of their isolation and of the impunity with which crime may be committed there._

—_The Adventure of the Copper Breeches_

* * *

NOTE

The Mentalist is not mine. The story, all of it, is.

One year from now, when you re-read this fic, I will strike you as either the most arrogant idiot or the most perceptive audience in the history of Mentalist fandom ever. It's a 50-50 shot. I'll take it.

Oh, and since the whole thing is too long for a single tag, I have to make this a multichapter. Hope you all enjoy.

* * *

SACRAMENTO

Stillness reigned in his attic. Jane stared out the window, saying nothing, looking exhausted, obviously occupied by the monumental challenge they'd just watched. Red John was going to kill again. Innocent people were going to die. Lisbon swallowed. She felt no surprise, yet when she tried to rise, her shoulders weighed a thousand pounds. She felt like a tourist who'd gotten lost. The confusion was overwhelming, the worry eating her alive.

But eventually she stood up, and walked to Jane's side.

"What are we going to do now?"

To her surprise, Jane turned to face her, and, after a moment of silence, pulled her to her arms. He hugged her so tightly that she wondered whether this would lead to anywhere. She wished. It had been too long.

Instead, Jane whispered to her ear, "We need to catch Stiles."

Lisbon looked up. "He's Red John?"

"No. He's the one protecting Red John. Without his protection, without his influence, Red John will be within our reach."

"So you're saying Stiles is involved?"

"Absolutely."

"I thought..."

"Exactly. You thought. You believed. You're sure." Jane sighed. "It's the myth."

"The myth?"

Jane released her off his arms, leaving her bereft and wanting. He walked to his bed and began to felt under it. When he returned to face Lisbon, there was a tiny tube on his palm, no larger than a quarter. He flicked it to her.

"Open it."

She did. "A micro SD card."

"A plastic miracle. Such a small thing for its capability. 64 gigabytes, no larger than your finger's digit."

"What's inside it?"

"All the files about Red John."

"I thought you burned them all."

"Always backup your file, Lisbon. The second thing every teacher involving computer teaches you."

She plugged the card into the laptop. As Jane said, it held all the files about Red John's cases since the very beginning.

"You said something about the myth?"

"Yes. Myths protect man. Myths separate him from the others. Myths make the others afraid."

"What?"

"Look, do you know the myth of the Aztecs?"

"Of course I know the myth of the Aztecs. Only an idiot doesn't know the myth of the Aztecs."

"Good. Then I don't have to explain its essence to you, which is that men are born to feed the gods. Should gods not eat men, they will destroy everything men have built. The gods have to eat the holy matter in human blood to sustain the world."

"Human sacrifice."

Jane nodded. "The priests carved out the hearts of those sacrificed and offered them to the gods. Bloods were spilled so the gods were appeased." He opened several docs in the flash drive's folder. "In essence, that's what Red John do for Stiles. He killed people to keep the high priest satisfied."

"But Red John—"

"Is a serial killer."

Lisbon paused, then nodded. An icy ball formed in her stomach. "The myth."

"Yes. All those bloody smileys are for the myth. Stiles, Visualize, and Red John—they all want us to believe that there exists a sadistic serial killer preying for young women in the middle of the night just so he could draw smileys from their blood. In reality, he is nothing but a thug. A clever thug, admittedly, but a thug nonetheless."

"A real life Luca Brasi."

"Only smarter. And Bret Stiles would make an excellent Don Vito, methinks. Or Alex DeLarge. Here, see for yourself."

Lisbon took the laptop from Jane. She read the cases Jane had opened.

"Three of the original nine victims were wives of Visualize critics."

Jane nodded.

"Why hasn't anyone noticed this?"

"Why hasn't anyone?"

Lisbon didn't get it, and then she did. "Because it's three out of nine. Not nine out of nine."

"Correct. All the other victims have been murdered to misdirect us. Their murders magnified the illusion of Red John. "

"Smoke and mirrors."

"It's a magician's oldest trick. The audience always see more than they have to. Red John wanted to make his crimes bigger than they were. A deranged serial killer is more frightening than a hired gun paid to silence critics of a cult. For every critics Red John silenced, he killed two more men to obscure it."

"And one more thing," Lisbon said. "It's the wives that were murdered. If it was their husbands, the critics themselves, suspicion would fall directly to Visualize. This way, it didn't. But the result is just the same. Overwhelmed by the loss of their wives, those critics, grieving husbands all, became unable to continue their work against Visualize. Psychological warfare at its finest."

"Very good."

Jane smiled that smile his brothers used to show their pride of her. A little disappointment crept inside her.

"But your wife and daughter—"

"They're dead," Jane said, shaking his head, "because of the myth."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It all comes together now." He shrugged. "Red John could not appear weak to his followers, Lisbon. I insulted him on a statewide TV. If he let that slide, his myth would lessen, and his grip on his followers would weaken. He had to maintain the illusion of his omnipotence. He had to come after my family. Made a lesson for me and his followers."

Lisbon noticed Jane's knuckles had gone ashen, and that blood was dripping out of his fists.

"You know how it goes from there. Jacqueline Sandoval. The snuff film students. James Panzer. They insulted Red John, and so they died. But, like Tom Hagen said, this is business, not personal."

"Sit, Jane," Lisbon said, and sat down beside him. Silence fell between them for a while until curiosity nudged at Lisbon.

"There are several things that still don't add up to me."

"Yeah?"

"Well, to start with..."


	2. Holes

_The temptation to form premature theories upon insufficient data is the bane of our profession._

—The Tragedy of Birlstone

NOTE: The Mentalist is not mine. The story, all of it, is.

Thanks to those who reviewed and followed. You guys are cooler than the other side of my pillow.

* * *

"What are they?" Jane said.

"Well..." Lisbon hesitated. Then she pressed on. "Aren't you and Stiles kind of, you know, friends?"

Jane smiled bitterly. "I wish."

"Aren't you?"

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

"But what about all the things he'd done for you!"

"The things he'd done for me? Bret Stiles has never done anything for anyone but himself. Name them."

Lisbon considered. "He gave us Kristina Frye."

"He did."

"Why would he give us Frye if he protects Red John?"

"Exactly because he protects Red John he gave us Frye."

"But Frye is a lead."

"Is she?"

"Of course. She shows us just how badly Red John could mindfuck people. She thinks she is dead."

"And then?"

"And—" Lisbon trailed off.

"And nothing. She's never told us a thing. In fact, she diverted our attention from Stiles. Instead of alerting the Indonesian authorities, we were busy trying to figure out what to do with a catatonic. Chess players call her a poisoned pawn."

"Get the pawn, lose the king."

Jane nodded.

The explanation didn't satisfy her fully, but Lisbon couldn't rebut it. She thought for something else. Stiles had been giving her the creeps, and she'd be glad to put Red John murders on him. But Jane didn't think so.

"He freed Lorelei for you."

"I don't—"

She shook her head. "We're past that."

"Fair enough. What I am about to say isn't true, so if you tell anyone about it, I will deny it."

Lisbon laughed.

"What?"

"Even when you tell me the truth, you lie."

Jane was silent.

"Continue."

"Let's pretend Stiles freed Lorelei for me. Why does that make you think it made us allies?"

"Because she was a minion of Red John and you've been trying to talk to her and Stiles' freeing her from prison gave you the chance."

"You read Harry Potter, the first book."

"Sure."

"Turns out Snape is the one who's been trying to save Harry from Quirell. Not out of love for Harry, but because he owed it to James. For saving his life."

"So?"

"The idea's the same. Last year I rooted out dissents in Stiles' inner circle. Stiles knew he had to repay that debt to me ASAP; otherwise there was no telling what I might have asked him."

"He could have refused."

" I would have gotten suspicious. He'd given me Frye before, for free. Why couldn't he give me Lorelei now? Especially now that I had a leverage. And just like that, with Lorelei out of prison, he was done being in my debt. Even better, it made me trust him."

"But what if Lorelei snitched?"

"Impossible. Lorelei was head over heels for Red John. She wouldn't have told me a thing. I tried to cajole her all the time on the road. Couldn't. Had you not found out about her sister's death, she wouldn't have betrayed her boss." Jane chuckled. "But in the end it all worked out for me. Lorelei's jailbreak led to her discovery of her sister's murder, which led to her rampage on Red John's minions, which forced Red John to get out of hiding. Stiles, Red John, Visualize, they wouldn't escape now, those fuckers. I'll get them."

Lisbon was silent. Jane was having that smile he'd shown when he told her about his handshake with Red John. She was spooked. Nothing good could possibly come out of that smile. What Jane had in mind when he had that smile was anyone's guess; hers involved homicides. She patted his shoulder to bring him back.

"The list."

"Yes, the list. Let's go over them one by one."

She groaned.

"What?"

"Can you just tell us who Red John is?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

"I have a feeling this is gonna be long."

"Possibly."

"Just don't do a Ted Mosby on me. Guy's been talking for eight years and we still don't know the mother's name. I pity his children."

"Scout's honor it wouldn't be that long."

Honor was among the last things Lisbon associated with Jane, but she let it slide. "Begin."

Jane walked back to the desk, took the photos. Ever a showman, she thought. He sat facing Lisbon, the photos spread like a poker player's cards.

"We've crossed Stiles." He put away Stiles' photo. "Which leaves us with six. The first one." He lifted a finger. "Smith."

"I knew it."

"Really?"

"He's fat, bumbling, short-tempered. And we dealt with him only once. I was surprised he was on your list."

"Me, too. But I wouldn't have dismissed him simply because of the reasons you mentioned."

"So, what, then?"

"Back in Vegas, when I was in the limousine, he told me he has a friend in the FBI. A friend in the FBI. He's not FBI himself."

"Maybe he lied."

"No. He was gloating. Why lie when gloating? All those bridges I burned, Lisbon. I got myself fired from the CBI, faked the deaths of you and Rigsby, led your team in an unsanctioned operation somewhere we absolutely have no jurisdiction over. Red John wanted to show all those had been for naught."

"He could still be playing with you.

"Unlikely. Think what would have happened if Darcy's squad didn't catch up in time. I would've lost two fingers, Lorelei would've disappeared, and our team would've been fired. It's my loss."

"But what about Wainwright? Didn't Red John bound him in the car so he'd be killed in the crossfire?"

"The thought occurred to me, but no. Lorelei was in the limo, too. Anything that happened to Wainwright might also happen to her. Most likely Red John planned to kill Wainwright later, in someplace safer, after he finished gloating over my loss."

"So Wainwright's death and Lorelei's capture are both real. Not some sort of tricks he pulled."

He nodded.

"Then, from there, because Red John was counting on making a clean escape, and because he actually said 'a friend in the FBI,' you conclude Smith isn't him."

"That's right."

He put Smith's photo away.


	3. Lures

_It is one of those instances where the reasoner can produce an effect which seems remarkable to his neighbour, because the latter has missed the one little point which is the basis of the deduction._

— _The Crooked Man_

NOTE

With thanks to all those who reviewed and followed.

As always, I hope you all enjoy. Do include your Red John suspect in your reviews! I'd be glad to hear what you think.

* * *

"Next." Jane lifted another photo. "Kirkland."

Lisbon was surprised and she wasn't. Kirkland was as eerie as they came, and eerier. His presence made her skin tingle. She'd been suspecting him since their coffee talk on the roof. His awkwardness reminded her of that boy who'd tried to ask her out in middle school, but it all disappeared when he talked about Red John. He seemed to have two different personalities, and she didn't know which one was ally and which one villain. Maybe he was both at once. Hence her half-surprise.

"Why him?"

"Lorelei shouldn't have known I shook hands with Kirkland."

"But you did shake hands with him."

"I did."

"So?

"She was in prison at that time."

"Red John couldn't have told her?"

"No. I checked. Prison phones are tapped. All calls are recorded and registered. Anyway, even if Red John somehow managed his way through the system, what's he going to say? _Hey __babe__, guess who I __just __shook hands with today? Patrick Jane.__ The guy __who __wants__ to kill me._ Just try to picture it."

Lisbon did. Couldn't. "But what if he sent someone to talk to her? Lawyers, jailors, inmates—God knows how many moles he has."

"If he could, Lorelei would've been gone already. No. Red John wouldn't risk losing a man in prison just to talk to her. Especially since Lorelei was held in Chowchilla. You know where it is?"

"The house for California's female death row," Lisbon said. "Security's hardcore. Okay, I get it. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out. Lorelei couldn't have known you and Bob shook hands."

Jane cringed. Which worried Lisbon. Since they'd begun talking, Jane had given himself away so much. But at this point there was no point in hiding anything.

"So Kirkland is out," Lisbon said. "Go on."

Haffner's picture was up.

"Oh, thank God."

"You glad Red John isn't Haffner?"

"It's...well..."

Jane grinned. "You had a crush on him."

"I was young. Impressionable. And stupid. Here's a man, tall, cool, aloof. An ex federale working with us lowly staties." Lisbon shook the memories away. "Still, why not him, though? He seems like a solid candidate. You did shake hands with him before you met Lorelei."

"Yes. It's a crucial detail, I must admit. And like you say, he is a solid candidate. He is an ex-FBI, an expert in surveillance, and, above all, Visualize."

"So what?"

"Haffner offered you a job in his firm, right?"

"What about it?"

"If he were Red John, you're the last person he wants around his business. I would have asked you to snoop around his office."

"And I would have refused."

Jane cocked his head. "Would you, now."

"Yes." If only she were as honest as she sounded. What was she going to say if Jane injected her with sodium penthotal? To regain her composure, she added, "If Haffner were Red John, isn't it possible he offered me the job to separate me from you?" _Separate me from you._As soon as she said the words Lisbon wished she hadn't. It was all she could do to keep staring at Jane's piercing eyes.

To his credit, Jane didn't pounce. "That's a possibility, sure. The problem is that it's simply not going to happen."

"Why?"

"For one thing—and don't bother denying this, Lisbon—I know you've become a cop to catch the bad guys. Whether you're only it for the game like McNulty or you truly want to protect the people like McGarrett, it's not my concern. Point is, you will choose to stick around. This is what you do. This is what you want. No amount of money could tempt you out of CBI."

Lisbon couldn't disagree. Still, she was compelled to ask what if she was tempted.

"Then I'd have Bertram raise your salary."

"What? No, you can't!"

"I'd match whatever you earn in Haffner's firm."

"That's a breach of administrative protocol—"

"I don't care about protocol. I care about you."

They locked eyes.

"But Haffner," Lisbon said.

"Yes, Haffner. No, Red John wouldn't have resorted to such an amateurish ploy. If he wants to take away my friends, he'll come up with something smarter. Remember Hightower?"

Now Lisbon saw. "She was framed."

"That's right. At the time, Red John's endgame was to deprive us of a cooperative SAC, and that he achieved. Hightower eventually had to disappear, causing a turmoil in our ranks. We didn't know who to trust for a good long while."

"He bred distrust."

"Classy, yes?"

"Yes."

Now that she remembered Hightower's fall, Jane's explanation made sense. Red John couldn't be foolish enough to ask her to leave Jane. Nor would he ever dodge her questions. If Haffner were Red John, he would have come straight when she asked him whether he was in Ellison Farm twenty years ago. _We're still friends. Why would you ask me that? _Nope. That couldn't be Red John. No sense in casting suspicion to himself like that. Red John would have been prepared. He'd said yes or no. A simple, definite, classy answer.

"Now that Haffner's out," Jane said. "We are down to our three final suspects."

"Who's next?"

"At this point, there's no who's next."

"What?"

Jane shook his head. "Each of these three has equal chance to be Red John."

"But you said you know who Red John is."

"I do."

"So how do you—?"

"Let me explain. If we put these three to some sort of hierarchy of suspects, we're not going to know who Red John is. Why? Because the clues contradict each other. It's impossible to pin down Red John on one man based on them. I went around circles with these three for a very long time before I figured out another way."

"Which is?"

"It's not the suspects I have to create a hierarchy of. It's the clues."


	4. Touch

_When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

—The Sign of the Four

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NOTES

I dedicate this chapter to upinthevioletsky, the one and only reviewer who picked up my XKCD avatar. I'm so, _so, **SO **_very glad that someone finally caught it. Congratulations!

As always, my thanks to all those who reviewed and favorited/followed.

On with the story!

* * *

"A hierarchy of clues," Lisbon said.

Jane pinned the photos of three last suspects on the board on one row.

"Yes. Here's how it goes. Given all the suspects we have left, who you think is the most suspicious?"

Lisbon considered.

"You can be honest."

"Partridge."

"Why?"

"Three reasons. First, he's ghoulish, irksome, and admires Red John too much. Second, he's CBI, meaning he has access to our offices, and works as a forensic technician, meaning he knows how to hide his tracks. Third, and most important, he fits Rosalind Harker's description better than the others."

"Rosalind Harker. The blind woman. We keep coming back to her, yes? She was Red John's girlfriend, and thus we take her words as the ur-text for him. 'Just under six feet tall, with short, straight hair, not muscular but not soft, with strong hands.' Of course it's got to be Partridge."

"But you disagree."

Jane grinned. "She is not blind."

"You're serious."

"Remember the letter she wrote to RJ Solutions. 'Dear Roy, I found this address on a business card of yours that I discovered down the back of the sofa.'"

Lisbon didn't see.

Then she did. A blind woman did not find an address on a business card. She just didn't find anything on any card at all. Harker was a liar or a fool for love or both—a problem all the same. Women like that reminded Lisbon of Martha Hanson, a character so idiotic it wasn't even sympathetic.

"Why didn't you alert us then?" Lisbon said.

Jane shrugged. "What good would that do? Harker would have shut us down. Or, worse, herself. In any case, if we take her in, I'd lose this advantage to Red John. He would've known I know she's not blind."

"So you keep this knowledge secret."

"Again, keep your friends close and enemies closer."

"Fair enough."

Jane returned to the board and unpinned Partridge.

"Because Harker's description points Partridge, and because Harker is a liar, we could say that that description as a clue isn't worth much. Numerically, I'd give it 25 percent."

He put Partridge below Bertram and the other man.

"Second clue," Lisbon said.

"Second clue. It's more of a theory. Remember the mole hunt two years ago?"

"Oh, yeah. You almost cost us our jobs by accusing my ultimate boss of being a serial killer."

"It's Bertram who made me realize it. He said we've reached the end of the rope, which reminded me of the rope that Isla brought to his assigned room. Thence I deduced she was going down, and that the true mole was O'Laughlin."

"Then Van Pelt and Hightower shot him, I called Tim Carter, and you shot him, too. So what of all these?"

"Here's a question: how did Carter know I was in the mall?"

"That's...wait a minute. You're accusing Bertram again?"

"It's a possibility I've entertained for a while. Nobody knew I was in the mall except Bertram."

"Why'd he put himself under suspicion? Sending Isla to his own room?

"Well, he had to clear his own name right there. If he's with me while O'Laughlin killed Hightower, he'd have a perfect alibi, wouldn't he? Bertram mentioned the rope so that I figured it was O'Laughlin, and from there the whole Hightower affair would be blamed on him.

"Makes sense," Lisbon said. "So all along Bertram might have planned to sacrifice O'Laughlin."

"He might. Only one problem."

"What?"

"What would have happened if Bertram didn't mention the rope?"

"Van Pelt and I would be murdered. Hightower would be gone. You would find out, figure the mole isn't Bertram, then recheck Isla's equipment in the hotel for any trail. You'd see the rope—and realize that she was headed to O'Laughlin's room." It clicked for Lisbon. "I see now. No matter what, O'Laughlin would be busted."

"Exactly. If Bertram wanted to have O'Laughlin take the fall he didn't have to do anything at all. He just had to wait, keep his mouth shut, until even I could no longer accuse him."

"Except he didn't."

"No, he didn't. Point is, after all those murders, all those twists and traps, why give me a chance to warn you?"

"But if Bertram isn't Red John, how'd Timothy Carter know you're going to be in the mall?"

"Red John just followed my movements. He needn't know I was headed to the mall."

"You've got no proof of that."

Jane shook his head. "Indeed not. That's why I give this O'Laughlin-take-the-fall clue 50 percent. It is as likely to be true as it is likely to be false." He shrugged. "On one hand, this clue is more legitimate than Rosalind Harker's descriptions, and so I rank it above her. On the other hand, it doesn't change our ranking. Status quo remains."

Lisbon glanced at the three pictures. Bertram and the other man were still above Patridge.

"What's the next clue?"

"He is Mar."

"Jared Renfrew's dying message."

"It's not his message."

"Red John's?"

"Yes."

"And you trust it."

"What's the alternative? That Renfrew was able to write it down without Red John noticing?"

Lisbon was silent.

"Red John always ensures the deaths of his victims. Even if somehow Renfrew survived to write a message, Red John would have erased it. No, the message is real. Red John wrote it and wanted us to read it."

"Why bother leaving a message at all? The smiley wasn't enough?"

"One of the simplest explanations is that he did it to confuse us. That He is Mar is just a gibberish which we still had to take seriously."

"Is it?"

"No."

"But you said the simplest explanations is usually the right one."

"I said one of the simplest explanations. There's another one, and it is that He is Mar is a real code which, if decoded properly, may help reveal his identity."

Lisbon shook his head, mumbling _uh-uh._

"What?"

"That's not enough. Codes mean nothing in court. No prosecutor will charge anyone just because of it. Even if it's real as you say, Red John will just say you misinterpret it. He'll go free."

Jane smiled brightly. "Which is the beauty of the code. A useless useful clue. Typical of Red John. He wants me to figure out what it is, and then to realize there's nothing I can do with it anyway. I'd give this clue 75 percent."

He returned to the board and unpinned Bertram and Partridge and switched their places. Bertram now was below Partridge and the other suspect.

"Wait, what?" Lisbon said. "Why did you switch their places?"

"Think about it," Jane said. "A clue like this would be lef tonly by someone who appreciated my deduction skills. Someone who had faith on my ability to crack codes. But the thing is, back when we dealt with Renfrew, only your team and Minelli understood that well. In fact, at that time, I believed I'd never actually interacted with Red John. I'd been looking through his files, yes, but there was nothing personal about it. This clue, however, was meant specifically for me to solve."

"Which means that Red John was someone you met _even before _Renfrew escaped."

"And so I excluded Bertram. You only met Bertram two years after. And this leaves us with—"

Suddenly, Lisbon lifted a hand, signaling Jane to pause, and stepped toward toward the board. She hesitated. Was she just tired of listening to Jane? She was. But that wasn't it. No, it was the pictures on the board. They bothered her. Something about them was off. If only she couldn't put a finger on it. Turning, she was about to ask Jane to go on, resigned to hear Jane pulling another round of Ted Mosby on her, and then it dawned on her.

A finger on it—

A finger on the board.

Touch.

There was one man Jane hadn't mentioned. The one man whose photograph Jane hadn't touched. Even after all this exposition, it hadn't moved. He just stayed there after pinned, unlike Bertram and Partridge. Now, why was that so, unless he was...

When she literally put a finger on his photograph, Lisbon saw Jane flinch.

"You're joking, yes?_ Him?_"

"I'm joking, no. Him."

"I don't believe it. It can't be."

"But it is."

"Red John is Sheriff Thomas McAllister."


	5. Truth

_And you____ shall know the truth __and the truth shall make you free._

—John 8:32

* * *

NOTE

My thanks to all of you who reviewed, favorited, and followed. Your feedback keeps me going. Especially since this is indeed the longest fanfiction I've ever written. It's been fun; it's been real.

And it ends here.

This is it, folks. The last chapter of Red John Revealed. All the clincher clues are here. No more tricks, no more twists, no more Ted Mosbys—just the facts, the whole facts, and nothing but the facts. In this chapter I'm just going to reveal everything I've got left on Red John. Just remember that ForsetiPurge has made his pick, 'mkay?

Please, go ahead and enjoy!

* * *

McAllister.

The man behind everything.

What really happened.

Staring at his photograph, Lisbon willed his face to come alive with a sneer, mocking her for not being able to catch him all this time. It never would. It was a photograph. It could not harm anyone. But the man was. Therein was the face of a serial killer which had eluded detection for more than a decade and would continue to do so unless she stopped him.

Pressure constricted her chest. Her vanity didn't allow her to accept McAllister as Red John. Not yet. This man? This lowly decrepit sheriff from a hick county that's only good for making wines—he was Red John? He'd done all these murders?

She turned to face Jane.

"Absurd."

"You know it's him."

"It doesn't matter what I know. I need more."

"All right." Jane took a scrap of paper, scribbled. "Take a look at the code."

HE IS MAR

sHErIff thomaS McAllisteR

"Only McAllister fits the code. Nobody else does."

"I told you a bunch of times. Codes doesn't mean anything in court."

"But the words of your team do. Let's go back to the mole. O'Laughlin. I asked Van Pelt about him, everything he did. Here's an interesting catch: he once took her to a lunch with a helicopter to Napa County."

"That's still not enough."

"I reckon it's not. So I asked another guy. His name is Ashley—"

Lisbon waved a finger, a Mutombo warning: _Don't do it._

"Fine, I get it. So, this man Ashley, he told me to look Red John like Waldo."

"And McAllister is like Waldo?"

"Compared to the other suspects? Yes. You know Waldo. For one thing, he stays on the background and appears only once on a page. McAllister does the same; he met us on only one case and stays out of our sight otherwise."

"Still—"

"Let me finish. As Leonard said, if he was easy to find, the books would be called _There's Waldo._ Without his red-and-white-striped shirt, bobble hat, and glasses, nobody can find Waldo. That's the same principle here. Without this bloody list nobody would suspect McAllister. "

Lisbon pursed her lips.

"I see you're not satisfied yet. Okay. I'll just keep going. There's also the matter of age. McAllister is the only one who's old enough to be Red John."

"Right. Like the Trinity Killer. Course your greatest nemesis has to be somebody gray, somebody old. Somebody over fifty."

"I'm serious, Lisbon. Recall Dumar the corrupt sheriff. He said his father Orville was a friend of Red John's. McAllister is the only one who fits the age."

"Friends can be of any age."

"Friends. Not superiors. Follow the timeline, Lisbon. Orville Tanner was on his forties when he worked as a look-out in 1998. Now, consider these suspects. Partridge, Haffner, Kirkland, Smith—all of them were at least a decade younger than Tanner at that year. Honestly, Lisbon, are you going to be ordered around by someone a decade younger than you?"

"No."

"Exactly. Which left Stiles, Bertram, and McAllister. Stiles we've already established as Red John's protector. Bertram we've already discounted because I haven't met him when we dealt with Renfrew. The only person who fits the age, the timeline, and the profile is McAllister. This clue is worth 90 percent."

He elevated McAllister's headshot above all.

"Any other questions?"

"When did you shake hands with McAllister?"

Her last card. Her trump card. Not exactly pukka sahib. She was accusing Jane of being wrong while he in fact had never been. Maybe she should stop being so stubborn and start accepting whatever he said. Her pride would not let her. And she knew what they said about pride. Pride and fall...

Jane grinned widely.

"When we played rock, paper, scissors." He shook his hand. "See?"

"That's a fucking excuse of language loophole!"

Jane shrugged. "A fucking excuse of language loophole to you, an ingenious crypt to him."

"He's full of shit."

"Concur. But if Red John is truly an aficionado of classic literature as he sounds, this is the only explanation that makes sense."

"Like what?"

"Have you read MacBeth?"

"Shakespeare. Everybody dies. Sure, what the fuck of it?"

"No man of woman born. The prophecy of the witches. They tell MacBeth that no man of woman born can kill him."

"And then?"

"Then he is killed by MacDuff. MacDuff was born Caesarean."

"He was still _born_."

"Not in Elizabethan times. MacDuff wasn't considered to have been "born" in the same sense of most men. At the time, woman born meant the baby was pushed out via—"

Lisbon held her hand up. Enough. "I get it."

"Okay. My point is, we did shake hands. We just didn't shake hands shake hands. We shook hands playing rock paper scissors."

"You know, if nothing else, this guy deserves to have his hand sliced. Communicating badly and then acting smug when you're misunderstood is not cleverness."

"That's what I plan to do all along. I'm very happy you accept it's him now."

Jane unpinned McAllister's headshot, put it on Lisbon's palm. She took a glance at it, just a little, like it were a bad omen to touch. Perhaps she was being fanciful again. It was just a photograph.

A photograph of Red John.

And as soon as that she found a trouble breathing. Breathing became burdensome. Now that she knew who Red John was, that she could finally put a face on the smiley, she saw him everywhere. Behind Jane. Beside her. On the window. Behind the door. On the floor below the attic. She limped, nauseated, her legs watery. Was this how Jane felt every day? Never knowing who he could trust. Always wondering whether the other person had murdered his wife and daughter. Unbelievable. No wonder man was so very afraid of sharing things. Anyone or everyone could be a friend of Red John's.

Perceptive man he was, Jane quickly grabbed her arms, gently directed her back to the bed. He sat beside her, saying nothing. He seemed intent to let her process the knowledge first.

Sheriff Thomas McAllister.

He was Red John. He was the only one who could be. All the pieces fell in their place.

The mystery solved.

Her heart clenched. She had supposed that knowing Red John's identity would lessen his impact. On the contrary, it just made him bigger. McAllister was human, flesh and blood like her and Jane and her team, and yet he possessed so much resources, controlled so many disciples, that he was able to kill so many people without facing charges, let alone convictions. Demons and devils did not scare Teresa Lisbon. Criminals who could avoid prosecutions did. And McAllister was one.

"When do you know?" Lisbon said finally.

"When Lorelei said Sheriff Thomas McAllister."

Just like that Lisbon saw. "He's the only suspect whose title is specified. That's your final clue."

Jane nodded. "I'm 100 percent certain of it. You remember Tommy Olds? The guy who wore a skull T-shirt to a house in morning? Only an idiot does that. An idiot, or a daring killer with a warped sense of humor. And here..."

"_Sheriff_ Thomas McAllister. Only an idiot would specify his own job title on a suspect list."

"An idiot, or a killer who has wiped out all evidences that incriminate him, such that there is nothing we could do to catch him even though we now know his name."

"I'll go with the latter. And you said _we_?"

Jane nodded. "I'm not going to repeat what I did to Carter. This time I want solid, hard, direct evidence." He swallowed. "I need your help."

_I need your help. _Not _I need you._ Well. A semblance of distance. Even when they were closer than never before, he also tried to keep them apart, or at least acted like he did. Huh! Some commitment issues this man had. If only he knew. Lisbon had been waiting forever and a day for Jane to repeat what he said before he shot her.

_I love you._

But do you love me, Patrick? Do you _really_? Do you even know what love means? All these years in the wilderness, after Red John murdered your wife and daughter. Are you still capable of loving? Loving Jane was like throwing coins down a well. A dry deep well. She could hear the mute puff when they hit water, but she always wondered whether she'd misheard. Literally.

Not that she could complain. Looking back, she figured it was best that they'd pretended. That time hadn't been theirs anyway. _When_ they were meant to be, they would be. Lisbon had chosen Jane as much as he had chosen her. She couldn't imagine ever being with anyone else. She'd take whatever he could give. And maybe, one day, they'd find their own little world and he'd be hers for good.

Lisbon turned from the man to the headshot on her palm.

Red John.

She clenched her hand, making a crumpled ball of the headshot. Then she opened it, ripped it, straight down the middle, tearing McAllister's face in two. Getting off the bed, she walked toward the bin, threw in the bits. Her hands felt unclean and she felt compelled to rub them hard. By God she would put handcuffs on McAllister with these hands.

"Jane?"

"Yes?"

"Let's get him."


End file.
